The Girl Who Ate The Peach
by Unique .F
Summary: He will never forget it was him. His magic, his world, his peach, his poison. Her dragging, dark, weariness. Depression haunts him, he wishes he could only die, but his immortal form entraps him, why won't it let him go? Why is he forced to stay here? He loves her, he loves her, she always, always, always was his, his, his to watch as she drains away.
1. The Girl Who Ate The Peach

_**The Girl Who Ate The Peach**_

A low cry echoes through the entire Labyrinth. It grates against the man's ears and he winces. The cry rumbles through the stony walls, through the glittering falls, through the dark oubliettes, through the forest where She and the Firey's first met.

_When all was dark and life was dim,_

_He met a girl, a girl with life. _

He waits, silent. The Labyrinth wails again, and the creatures bear it's cry, their multiuse throats stretching and expanding with the force of dispelled breath. But he waits, quiet, as the doors grind open.

_A girl with power, _

_a girl with passion,_

_a girl with beauty._

He is still as a statue, so heartrendingly beautiful, but yet, so darkly repelling. His eyes are dark holes burned in his head by an iron poker. His hair is wispy sunlight entrapped in liquid softness. His face is sharp lines, unblurred by an cautious rubber. He looks half finished, a pencil sketch without the soft blurring of tone. Everything is either black or white. His clothes are as black as night. His skin is paler than snow. His eyes are darker than the abyss itself.

_The Girl with chocolate locks, the Girl with emerald eyes, _

_the Girl with a will as strong as his own,_

_With a kingdom as great,_

_With the fierce naivety of youth._

Loss tears the hearts of the creatures as they carry the bier, draped with peach blossoms, through the mourning Labyrinth. The line was long, all heights, all shapes, all sizes, but sharing one collective expression, as if a masque had been stamped on their faces. Oh, to feel.

_Unremarkable, was she, complaining, whining,_

_But yet remarkable, was she, for rescourcefulness and courage, for love and heart._

The figure, stiff and white and cold upon the sweetly scented bier was dressed entirely in white. He can see that from where he stands a grave sentinel. The multitude of creatures scamper around her- she is a shining diamond in their midst. It seems as if she is the lady moon descended among land dwellers for the first time in her celestial reign.

_And when he held her, close to him,_

_His fool heart beat so fast,_

_He placed the moon in her heart._

Oh! To be able to touch her just once more, to be able to call to her, caress her name upon his time-wearied lips, to hear her scream in defiance, to see her green eyes snapping carelessly with hateful fire even as she drives him to his doom. She is a drug, he cannot help it, he is addicted to her, addicted to her fire and her passion and her punishing beauty.

_She defeated him, cast him away,_

_Like leaves on the breeze,_

_Like birds in the stars,_

_Like owls on the trees. _

He still watched her, after she beaten him. And yet here he stands, quiet, alone, abandoned in a world of uncaring hate and grief, anchored against the passage of time, forced to while century after godforsaken century, crying her name in salvage upon his lips, again and again, but for no glory to escape from the tether from which she was bound. Oh! To be able to die. To be able to cry and rage and ravage, and know that his efforts are weak. Oh, to be mortal.

_And while she wasted,_

_Her power waned,_

_His love waxed._

And as her magic was sucked by the cold metals of Above, the cruel science, the disbelief in magic, something more, his own grew. As she wasted from a sickness none could cure, save for himself, as she wept from a sorrow none could comprehend, save for himself, he waited, a snowy cure amid a world of death and destruction. But she did not call. Oh! To be free once more, to be alive truly.

_Upon a peach bier she came,_

_Clutching her downfall tight with one hand,_

_A bitten peach, it's poisonous root open for all eyes to see._

The doors of the castle grind open, and he blinks as the bloody red light streams in from behind the carriers. They move forward, wailing and singing and crying all the while, and the bier slides from their arms, onto the cool stone. And for the last time, he looks down upon her form.

_T'was then the Labyrinth mourned,_

_As one, as two, as three,_

_The King wore black,_

_And his power reached heights never before known,_

_A God he became._

And as he stands there, looking down on her upturned face covered by a Gescian Mask, he examines her closely. She wears a garment of the purest virginal white, which covers her body entirely. White gloves encase her hands. Her face is covered by a Gescian Mask, the sign of theatre, set in indescribable sorrow and agony. Unable to bear it any longer, his trembling fingers lifts her cold head, the once silky tresses slips through his fingers, and he unhooks the masque.

_A god of the night dark grief, a god of mourning,_

_Or should we say Devil?_

_For what heaven lies above us, or lurks beneath us?_

He roars. A dam breaks somewhere beneath him, and he huddles over her still, cold corpse, strokes her wizened cheek. Where his tears drip onto her face, where his touch brushes over her skin, it briefly becomes smooth and warm under his touch, pulsing with magic. When he pulls his hand away, wipes the tears, he beholds a rapid process of her wearying, dragging death.

Purple veins cover her skin first and it leeches of any colour. Wrinkles appear, and the face wizens, shrinks, shrivels up like a prune.

_For how should he go on, when his heart is dead and his will is gone,_

_When he kills by fateful accident, when he stares, blank as a grave,_

_Towards endless nether?_

Even as he grieves, her power rushes through his veins, strong and permanent and stolen. His grief expands, covers the entire of the two worlds in it's entirety. Every creature, dumb or clever, proud or not, selfish or not, felt the awing crush of his magic, his grief, his overpowering loss. As one, every head bowed, every leaf dropped, every being paid tribute to a being few had seen, the dead Champion.

_Should we, those who watch and read, those who see and tell,_

_Believe the misery that haunts the soul?_

The misery pounds against him, and he weeps, diamond tears rushing down his chiselled face, a perfect god of despair. A smitten angel, a perfect devil, a glorious and good demon who moans and rocks with the power of his sorrow. It encompasses him, and he does not bother to contain it. Who cares for anything any more? The last of the world's beauty and love fell when she did. And because of him.

She had tasted the forbidden.

_Do not cry, 'tis not for weeping._

_For we are at rest now, and we wait for him,_

_Silent, silent._

_Unforgettable, the final relief,_

_Silence, silence..._

The peach. The peach had given her the taste of magic. Magic had rooted in her soul. Magic had withered and passed to him as she did. The peach _he _had given her, albeit indirectly. The peach that had killed her.

_Hush, do not cry, and do not mourn for this god of darkness,_

_For his time came, and now his soul has passed into our nether,_

_Tis just the body we await now._

He howls up at the cruel, uncaring sky, his nails carve bloody furrows in his stark white cheeks, drops of colour in a pencil sketch. As his blood falls to her face, she cries with him, cries his own vein's tears.

Inescapable grief sweeps over him. Inconsolable regret.

Could she still be alive, if he had said something differently? A thousand different choices he could have made, a million different words, and it would be she in his arms now, crooning to him softly, kissing his pale cheek, rather than the touch of his imagination, the Labyrinth's quiet consolation.

Something in him had died when she had. His love, never. His lust, surely. His hope, certainly. His soul, of course.

His mind shattered just as the crystal equivalent of his heart had shattered in the Escher Room.

He was just a husk, awaiting death's cold embrace. Nothing lasts forever. Eventually, he would die...

_At last._

**This is the by-product of a bad day...Me just being depressed...All original content, including poem.**


	2. The King Who Never Smiles

_**The King Who Never Smiled**_

Never smiled. Never laughed. Never sang. Never went out. Never took a woman to his bed. Never fathered a child. Never took any oath to anyone ever again. Never had company.

Truly alone. Oh, but there was the Labyrinth, of course, and she brushed against his mind often, reminding him, _no, you are not alone, not yet, not yet, _but it wasn't really the same. He ruled his kingdom from his castle. His fae eyes never saw the light of day, except when it was streaming through a window.

The gaping hole inside of him refused to heal. It throbbed daily, sending fresh waves of resolve cracking sorrow through him. He was tormented by her face, yet he kept a picture of her above his bed, so that when he woke, he could look into her green eyes and fool himself, just for a moment, that it was real, that is was truly she looking down at him.

The only escape he had from the awful, awful pain was when he took flight in owl form, soared over the labyrinth, and allowed his worries and cares to fall behind with his fae form.

Oh, the kingdom was prospering well enough. The Labyrinth was just as unsolvable...with one exception. The weather here was nearly always overcast. Swirling clouds, pregnant with rain, but refusing to fall. Empty nothingness.

Yes, that was him now.

A shell. A husk. A discarded body, while his soul, heart and mind gallivanted with Death. He soldiered on, reminding himself, _nothing lasts forever. _Not even pain. Not even heartbreak. Not even immortal gods.

They called him the Mourning Sage now. Mourning Sage. It suited him. He was the most powerful creature in the entirety of the two worlds combined, but he was broken in mourning. More wise than any other, more destroyed than the most miserable man. They came to him with queries, questions, pleads, hopes and dreams.

More often than not he told them the same thing. _Nothing lasts forever, treasure what you have while you have it. _

But for an hour, every week, he allowed himself some time.

He would go to her grave, stand by the budding peach tree, and mourn his beautiful, lost, withered Champion. The Labyrinth would come to him then, at the end of the hour, in her humane form, and would take his arm, kiss him gently, and lead him back to his life.

The Labyrinth. He only went on because if he didn't, there would be no Goblin King, no protecter of the Labyrinth. She deserved more than that. No, he would find an heir, train it up...

"_My King," _the Labyrinth sighed as he walked her glittering passageways, trailing his magic along the walls, pouring his essence into her own. Cracks fixed, traps renewed, walls stood straight.

He loved his labyrinth. He fed her with his magic, his endless magic, and she stood taller, higher, longer than ever before. This was the golden age for the goblin kingdom. Goblins became adept at crafts specific to only them. Their race flourished. The Goblin Kingdom became a powerful kingdom, as powerful almost as Faewilde, the faes home country.

But their king wept.

He never laughed, never smiled, never sang. He ruled fairly, but with no emotion. Lawbreakers were killed by a lift of the finger, incinerated. He created a new pit, full of burning flames that would keep one alive, just in mortal agony for a very long time. That was where he sent the worst criminals. He called it _The Pit of Eternal Flames. _

Often he himself would come down there, try to kill himself. He discovered many ways which fae are invulnerable. He threw himself on spears, leapt from great heights, disembowelled himself, attempted to cut his head off with a guillotine, threw himself into eternal fires, tried to drown himself, tried to starve himself, all to no avail.

He was, quite literally, immortal. His body refused to die.

So he ruled from his castle of stone, deep in the forest of stone, with an iron hand and a stony indifference. Mourning Sage...The King Who Never Smiled.

**I might make this a four-shot**


	3. The Son Who Was Never Born

_**The Son Who Was Never Born**_

Time went by. It was meaningless to him, to the Labyrinth. He was immortal, she was immortal. He didn't notice the passage of time like others did. But fourteen new gatekeepers later, the first of the messages came.

When he received the first one, he burst out laughing and penned a reply along the lines of, _"I am promised to a woman already, and shalt never break mine vows, should even the world fall down."_

He ruled justly, he ruled fairly, but having ruled for over 8974 billion years, the councils were getting edgy. No heir. No wife. He hadn't sired a bastard, nor slept with a woman since...well, 4,000 years ago, when the beautiful Champion fell to death.

His contemplations stopped awhile at the familiar tang of pain.

_Nothing lasts forever._

Love does. Labyrinth does. He does. Pain does.

"_Do not cry, my King." _The Labyrinth whispered quietly in the depths of his damaged mind.

_Cry? Cry? I do not cry. _

It was true. As the years went on, slowly, he began to petrify. He had lived through the coronations of five new High Kings. His skin became glossy, it looked as soft and tearable as paper, like onionskin, but was yet diamond hard with immortality. His eyes, oh, people had stared for hours into his eyes, and had fainted with the force of his gaze. When he looked in the mirror, he could see why.

Blank, burning holes of loss and despair. Blanketed by heavy nothingness. No emotion was present on his smooth, unlined face, all angles and sharp lines, no emotion tugged the corner of his once-wry mouth. His sharp canines flashed in the light like vampire fangs.

Yes, a vampire. That was what he looked like. Living dead.

An oxymoron. The man who never died but died the moment She did. The man who feels no emotion but is an internal storm. The man who is more powerful than the power fullest of people, but is defeated by a mere name.

Emotion drained from him. Will drained from him. But his pained love never went away.

He stayed with the labyrinth. He loved her more fiercely than any other Goblin King before him, as she was his life now. He lived for the Labyrinth's betterment.

There are many types of love. Physical love, love of a friendship, love of another, and love of a soulmate. Myriad types, so many, if he tried to count them, he would be there still another thousand years, or was it weeks? Ah, he couldn't remember anymore.

The first runner after the true Day of Mourning was a beautiful woman, with cornsilk blond hair and summer blue eyes. She'd been named Cassandra. She'd been reading a story to her youngest daughter, little Amilia, and had accidently wished her away. She'd gotten quite far, but had, in the end, lost. All the same, he'd returned Amilia, and kept in contact with her. She'd helped him. It helped him to see he was still needed, still wanted in the world. Cassandra had borne him no grudge for taking her daughter. In fact, she seemed to welcome him into their lives.

She'd died thirty Days of Mourning later.

He couldn't really remember all that many of the labyrinth runners. He couldn't really remember anything to do with anything anymore. Just his memory, slipping away in his old age...He couldn't even remember how old he was, he just knew he'd been around for a very long time. Long enough to see humans develop hover cars and set up homes on Mars, long enough for them to develop completely past needing magic-

But the two worlds never split.

The ties, which had been weakening all the time as human's belief in magic weakened, did not break, did not diminish. It had taken the blood of a pure believer, her magic, her future, her love, her world, and her soul bound the two worlds irreparably together.

How ironic.

The next time the high council asked after an heir, he sent the courier back in boxes. Notes were burned. He paid no attention to their veiled threats. He was more powerful than the two worlds combined, anyway.

Once, someone tried to wage war against him. The opposing force was crushed within days.

Nothing of interest happened.

Then they came again, pleading. A heir. Again.

_He is standing in the highest tower, looking out of the highest window. He built this room specially. It's open to the elements. The doorway opens to a long stone plank that protrudes into empty space._

_And at the tip, he stands._

_Many times he had thrown himself off this plank. Of course, he was immortal, and therefore did not die._

_A voice calls from the doorway. "Dreamer of a Lover Distant and Lost."  
>He jumps, startled. No one has called him by that name in many, many centuries. Even he had forgotten what it was. The Seer's name. <em>

"_Dreamer of a Lover Distant and Lost. Come here." The voice orders. It is a man. The current High King._

_The Mourning Sage remains silent, balancing on the tip of the plank, buffeted by winds. Finally, he speaks. _

"_Many times I have thrown myself from this tower. Many times I have driven a spear through my heart. My existence is trying to end my existence. But I am immortal...We see mortals begging at our feet for the kiss of immortality. We find creatures willing to give up their soul to live forever. Would they be so willing if they knew what we know now? The curse of time, forestalled...I spent three hundred years in the earth, and yet I did not die. I cannot die. Does this mean I am a devil? Or am I a god? Can I be evil while being good? When I have to force myself to survive?" He shakes his head, lost deep in his ancient ponderings. "My world is ancient, more ancient than yours shall ever be, young Amir. I am centuries old. I do not know how long I have walked this earth, only that is longer than anything has ever lived before. I am the conquerer of time, but yet, I stand here, and I wish for death. You always want what you cannot have."_

_Amir, the High King, remains silent, though he shifts uneasily on his feet._

"_You do not see what I mean," the Mourning Sage sighs. "You fear I have lost my mind and my reason. I have not. I just walk where there is truth instead of illusions, where men need not beguile themselves with tales of glory and wonder. The Savage Garden...There is one law of the garden, and that is the law of aesthetics. One must always admire the beauty of that perfect apple, that beautiful tree, that gorgous colt. But truly, are we all so different? Cannot we commune...But no, you are too confused. You do not understand. You want to know how I have lived forever. Why I live forever. I tell you...I do not live. My soul is dead. Gone. 'Tis only my body Death is waiting for now."_

"_An heir, Goblin King. It is all you need. An heir, Mourning Sage, and you may rest. Look upon this child. See him...he is your own." Amir says uneasily. He is beginning to regret coming to the enigmatic Sage._

_The Mourning Sage turns, at last, and walks to take the babe from him. _

_It begins to wail piteously._

_He takes the babe in his arms, and looks down upon his face. He is a mirror image of himself, almost. If one did not see the captivating green eyes..._

_A flash of pain smites his heart, and he gasps._

Sarah's eyes. _The babe has Sarah's green eyes._

_Her name! He had all but forgotten her name. Her beautiful name that even now sent pulses of pain throbbing through him. _

_He, the babe, has a sharply angled face, and wavy blond hair. It's like looking at a photo of his younger self. The chubby arms and legs wave and the child coos softly, in a manner remiscient of his ancestral mother. _

_Jareth, King of the Goblins, Mourning Sage, The King Who Never Smiled, the God of Time, the Lord of Despair, The Dreamer of a Lover Distant and Lost, smiled._

"_Jared."_

_The babe waves his chubby little fists._

""_I have waited a long time for you, Goblin Prince. You will be a strong ruler one day, and then I may finally join the stone."_


	4. The Prince Who Learned

_**The Prince Who Learned**_

To him, the rediscovery of life, of emotion, was as splendid as gazing upon a sighing sea, a golden morning, a valentine evening, with eyes as fresh and sharp and new as a youngling's. With fervent joy, he galloped over grassy hills upon the back of a mare he himself had raised, with joyful reverence he read books older than time- he knew them all by heart, but it was just in the reading, the act,- with careful innocence he strolled the streets of Above.

Life! Emotions...Oh, emotions as he had not had since that fateful First Day of Mourning. The Mourning Sage had come alive again! He'd emerged from the earth, clawed his way back into civilisation.

He stood now in a bedroom, gazing down with adoring eyes upon the resting body of his descendant and heir, the son who was never born, Jared, Heir to the Goblin Kingdom.

He was a fine, strong boy, at the age of ten now, ten long years! Oh, they had flown by in a wink.

His eyes, his gorgous eyes were still just as youthful and vigorous as only they could be, his face was still sharp and angled and half finished, his hair was still choppy and blond. He had discovered a great talent in magic, which the Sage had boosted in every way he knew how. He was determined to be the father to Jared he had never had.

But, as he lay in bed, it came back.

The grey. The nothingness. The unemotional blankness. Sometimes he welcomed it. It brought relief from the awful, awful, terrible pain.

Every time he looked into his son's eyes, a terrible crippling pain overcame him as he remembered another one who had shared those twin orbs. At the same time, relief, joy, pride, love. He loved Jared as much as he loved the Labyrinth. He devoted everything he had to nurturing his child, his son, just as he devoted himself to the Labyrinth, and together they flourished. Jared had brought him back to the world. He'd woken him up from his long sleep.

And now, he had a _name. _

Not eleven years ago, no one save the Labyrinth had known his actual name. And now, well, there were many! Jareth, yes, that was his name.

But even as exultion overwhelmed him, he knew all the same. Knew that once Jared had grown to manhood and was ready to take over the duties of the labyrinth, he would go, go, and fly high.

Because if there was one thing every creature needed, it was air.

He'd already proved he didn't need oxygen to survive. But he still needed an atmosphere for his magic to draw from. So if he went higher and higher into the sky, and into the dark oblivion of space, then he would die. Be it from the cold, the lack of atmosphere, or even getting there, he would die.

At last.

He was grateful to his son, too. For showing him how to move on from her death. He would never heal, but at least he could work around the pain. It depended on one's outlook.

Like saying, if someone stubbed their toe, in the words of Jared, you could say, _"Oh, he's a cripple," _or _"Oh, he's smart or strong or clever enough to have avoided a worse injury."_

Though how Jareth could have avoided a _worse _injury than the living death he had succumbed to for something like...oh, millennia, he wasn't quite sure.

"_My King, and my Prince," _the Labyrinth sighed affectionately.

Jareth sent her a mental smile and whispered quietly, _"Come with me to Champion's Rest?"_

"_My King," _the labyrinth replied. _"Oh, you have paid a price indeed."_

He transported himself to the peach grove where Sarah had been placed. The Labyrinth was there, in her human form, smiling quietly.

The Labyrinth's humane form was...different. A towering woman with straight, jet black hair, olive toned skin, and wise, thoughtful brown eyes. Her skin was covered in the paths of her walls, giving her an inked appearance. She preferred to appear as a woman, though the Labyrinth was neither male nor female, but something in between. She was usually referred to as 'Mother Labyrinth', and often described herself as female.

The pair walked silently and Jareth knelt at the headstone, on which read,

_Here Lies Sarah Williams,_

_Champion of the Labyrinth,_

_Lover Distant and Lost,_

_Taster of the Forbidden,_

_And Love of the Mourning Sage,_

_May She Rest In Glory._

And in front of it, was a diamond vault. It was created purely of diamond, which glittered and flashed in the sun. Underneath, Sarah's untouched face was visible, covered by her Gescian face masque and gown of flowing white.

"When I die," he told the Labyrinth, "I want to be buried here too."

She remained silent, gazing down on the masked face of her Champion, and the Queen.

And above the vault, a peach tree bloomed, it's blossoms falling around the vault in scented orange blooms.

A terrible resignation overcame him then, and he touched the cool diamond.

"Only a few more years," he whispered, "And I'll be with you. I promise...I love you, precious one, foolish thing."

A crystal tear fell to the diamond below, and another, and another.

The King and the Labyrinth wept, silent, graceful, alien figures full of otherworldly beauty at the grave of a young mortal woman, their hearts heavy with future and their eyes soft with emotions.

((()))

Jareth watched as his boy grew. It made him very proud to see the well mannered, centred young man taking shape. He had been made an immortal the same way Jareth had.

All his blood, his human blood, had been drained from him, and replaced with fae blood.

The Mourning Sage himself had overseen this. Three times, on his son's fifteenth birthday, he had questioned him. Three times Jared had replied yes, he wanted to be immortal, he wanted to be Goblin King.

He had bled himself, shared the blood rite with his son. He'd wiped the memory from Jared's brain afterwards and replaced it with the knowledge he had undergone the Fae Blood Rite with the Sage acting as his donor.

It had been stupid to give away that much blood. The Goblin King had been moored in bed for a long time recuperating.

How he loved his son. He was so much like himself in so many ways.

Stubborn, cruel, but good and kind, proud, but gentle, and fair. He knew his son's fate even before a Seer came to him with her vision.

Fate would repeat itself until the Champion of the Labyrinth and the Goblin King give forth an heir, whom will be the next Ruler.

His generation had failed, but he had already reincarnated in Jared. He searched the world ceaselessly for Sarah, but she never came.

And he refused to let himself go to the stars without seeing his Jared reunited with a Sarah of his very own. He refused to allow the same fate to happen to his son that had happened to him.

And so, Jared grew, and the Mourning Sage searched.

((()))

The day Jared turned 100 and passed into adulthood, the searcher found her.

A beautiful babe, with a lock of chocolate brown hair already, and fierce, burning mismatched eyes of blue and brown. It amused him that apparently his and Sarah's eyes appeared to have been switched on their younger counterparts.

The name amused him even more. Sara. Not _sair-ruh, _as his Sarah had been, but _sar-uh. _Sara and Jared.

He took every step possible. He left Jared his personal diary. He left Sara the book of the Labyrinth and blessed her with magics. He told Jared he had left the book with it's keeper.

He himself had seen Sarah when he had been passing overhead in owl form. But that was too rare, too vague. He was not taking any chances with his son's happiness.

_They are standing in a grand room, ornate. Two chairs are set upon a raised dais, and around them a semicircle of chairs are filled with fae lords and ladies._

_The High King stands before the Mourning Sage and his son. _

"_Goblin King, do you give your blessing to this man, that he take your throne and rule as long as he shall live or until his heir is ready to take over?"_

"_I do, with my ink and my blood, with my magic and my right as protecter of the Labyrinth and King of the Goblins."_

"_Do you Jared wish to uphold the throne and title of Goblin King and Protector of the Labyrinth, as long as you should live?"  
>"I do, upon my father's name and my birthright."<em>

"_Will you provide an successor for the throne and ensure the continuation of the Labyrinth?"_

"_I shall, upon my father's name and my birthright."_

"_Will you answer the wishes of humans in accordance to the Racial Laws?"  
>"I shall, upon my father's name and my birthright."<em>

"_Will you uphold your honour as King of the Goblins?"  
>"I shall, upon my father's name and my birthright."<em>

"_Then may your period of test begin. Mother Labyrinth, what say you?"_

"_**I will take Jared Gaelin Shyrgrikk Cliynne, Child of the Morning Stars, as my own."**_

_Jared Gaelin Shyrgrikk CIiynne? A murmur runs throughout the room, but the Mourning Sage smiles. His own name was more horrific. Blood Rises. Jared comes from a long line of killers._

_And then Jared was taken away to begin his period of silence, and the Mourning Sage was the King of the Goblins no more._

**And this oneshot turned two shot turned fourshot is about to be turned into a fiveshot. I was also planning for a supplementary story from Jared's point of view.**


	5. The Death of a Sage

_The Death of a Sage_

Magic cocooned him as he laboured upwards. Wings stroked the air rhythmically, beating effortlessly through vaporous clouds. Below him, a world amassed, waiting, silent, grief-stricken.

The Mourning Sage flew upwards, water droplets clinging to his feathers. Beside him flew Jared, his son, his heir, his little boy, and another owl.

This owl was female, with darkish markings along her back. She had piercing green eyes.

Jared's Sara.

Followed by his two children, the ancient, tired fae flew, flew higher and higher, until the oxygen started to get thin.

Dizzy, the two children spiralled towards the ground, calling harshly their grief.

Magic pulsed around him, and he breathed it as he continued upward, shooting through the clouds like a star.

Peace. He had done everything possible to ensure that Jared would never fall as he had. Every thought and emotion he had had he lay bare for his son to analyse.

Pride bore him high into the sky, and he called lowly to the ground he was leaving forever.

Rhythm. _Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump..._

Magic protected him as he soared away from the Underground, from Earth, and into the inky depths of space.

It drained quickly, the magic, and he started to gasp for air. But still, he did not die, even as his body combusted from the artic tempature.

Stars swam in his eyes.

Peace enshrouded him. At last. And as darkness fell, his last thought was,

_My love, I am coming._

And so, Jareth, King of the Goblins, Dreamer of Loves Distant and Lost, Mourning Sage, Dark King, passed into oblivion on the fourteenth of Febuary, 8012. Just as his love had, on the fourteenth of Febuary.

Valentine's Day. Mourning Day. They mean the same, don't they?

_My love, I am coming, at last._


End file.
